


such sweet sorrow

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 03:19:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: Her gaze flicks back to the pages in front of her while Benvolio gets rid of his riding boots with a groan, and she finds herself so entranced in the story that she barely registers what comes next.





	such sweet sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I think I've officially lost all chill with those two, if I ever had chill in the first place

It is almost frightening, how quickly they fall into a routine of sorts.

There is always the occasional ball or dinner, of course, but for the most part Rosaline’s new agenda is not as dreadful as she would have thought it to be. Mornings are spent in the kitchens, tending to the maids and making sure the house is ready for the day and the meals to come – she takes inventory of the pantry, decides on the recipes, sends servants to buy more if needed. Then a light lunch, before she goes to town for business, meets with her uncle or attends to some paperwork, as the lady of the house. Supper is often shared with Benvolio, before he has evening meetings of his own.

He seldom tells her what he is up to during the day, but Rosaline knows by now that it involves a lot of being chastised by his uncle for the crime of not being Romeo. That, more than anything, she can understand, for her own aunt is doing quite the same to her. But where it doesn’t bother Rosaline, it seems to affect Benvolio, his mood particularly sour after each meeting with both families or the Prince.

It is on one such night, Livia already fast asleep and Benvolio god knows where, that Rosaline allows herself a much needed reprieve. She slides off her slippers and grabs a book, settling in the middle of the bed she usually finds herself sharing. The idea has been quite dreadful at first, but she grew accustomed to Benvolio’s deep breathing when he sleeps – on one particular occasion where he was visiting another family out of town and had to spend the night, she found herself missing his presence, if not his company.

The book is one Juliet had told her many times about, a tale of romance and chivalry. It is not to Rosaline’s taste, but it is a nice change from the keeping of books and reading of political statements. If anything else, it keeps her mind away from the current situation she dares calling her life, and for that she is grateful.

She is halfway through the story when the door to the bedroom opens, Benvolio entering the room. He nods at her, before he strips off his clothes. The motions had brought a blush to her cheeks the first time but, as with many other things, Rosaline grew used to it. She now barely flinches at the sight of her husband’s bare chest, though her eyes always wander when she knows him not to look. His personality may be repulsive, but it doesn’t make her blind to the beauty of the human body.

Her gaze flicks back to the pages in front of her while Benvolio gets rid of his riding boots with a groan, and she finds herself so entranced in the story that she barely registers what comes next. That is, Benvolio throwing himself at the bed and landing ungracefully by her side, only to wrap his arms around her waist and to nestle his face against her stomach. Her entire body freezes, her mouth opens in shock.

“What are you doing?” she finds herself saying, surprise taking over anger in her voice. And then, a little more disgusted, “Are you _drunk_?”

But the strong smell of ale doesn’t invade her senses – he stopped his visits to the tavern a while ago, after all – and Benvolio shakes his head against her stomach. “Nothing of the kind. Can’t a man take comfort in his beloved’s arms?”

She wants to snort a laugh and so she does, the noise ugly and unladylike. Benvolio glances up at her, half of his face still pressed against her, the grin dancing in his eyes even if she cannot see his mouth. He apparently takes a certain pleasure in making her laugh, for reasons she still cannot fathom – a sarcastic comment whispered to her ear during a public dinner, a well-timed roll of his eyes at his uncle’s words, a joke shared with Livia and her over supper.

Still, there is a difference between the sense of camaraderie he tries to instore between them, and whatever his thinks he is doing at the moment.

“Can’t a man remember this marriage is a scam?”

He raises his head fully this time, just so Rosaline can appreciate the full intensity of the pout on his lips. He is ridiculous, that much is clear – sometimes, she wonders if she would like his antics more, were he to wear a different name. But such thoughts only remind her of Juliet’s ramblings about Romeo’s family and title, and she shakes her head to will the memories away. She cannot afford to think Benvolio and herself a comparison to Juliet and Romeo – not when one pair chose duty, while the other did love.

“Dear wife, you are a heartless one.”

A few weeks ago, those words would have been bitter and hurtful on his tongue. Now, he is the right amount of playful for Rosaline to know he is teasing and joking – a side of Benvolio she didn’t expect, when she first met him, but that suits him well. He is far more agreeable when he is not frowning all the time.

“Better heartless than brainless,” she retorts, though the biting edge to her voice is not as sharp as she would have liked. Truth be told, she is tired – tired of this game of pretences and being angry all the time, tired of frowning at Benvolio as he solely is the source of her misery, tired of feeling like an outsider in her own house. Tired of this dreadful situation, and witnessing the blossoming romance between Livia and Paris – tired and jealous, perhaps, longing for the courtship, yearning for the companionship. Loneliness doesn’t suit her well.

Benvolio only coos at her, a small “aww” that gets a smile out of her. It might not be courtship, but it is definitely companionship – someone who can hold his own against her, who will never be hurt nor affronted by her sarcasm, who takes as much as he gives.

(If only he were not a Montague…)

“I think you are growing fond of me.” She rolls her eyes dramatically, but Benvolio doesn’t let it deter him. “You would already have punched me off the bed, if it were not the case. Admit it. I grew on you.”

“Like mold on bread, perhaps.”

But his smirk tells a different story, and Rosaline has to admit he might not be so far off the truth. She never let him touch her without consent before, not that he ever tried in his respect of her agency and her wishes. Even careful brushes of hand on arm are often off the question in private, and the only rare times he puts his hands on her are when they are forced to dance together in front of all of Verona.

Now he tightens his hold on her, and smiles even more – as if challenging her to push him away. Rosaline has the gnawing feeling that, whatever she elects to do, he will win this round anyway. So she rolls her eyes once more, before putting the book back in front of her – and if it hides Benvolio from her sight, the better.

“Fine,” she relents with a sigh. “Do as you wish, since you are so good at it.”

He snorts a laugh, before shifting on the bed to find a more comfortable position. Her stomach remains his pillow, though, nose pressed above her navel, hot puffs of air bringing a thrill down her spine. She reads the same line three times before she gives up, just in time to hear Benvolio’s breathing even out into a quiet snore.

Rosaline closes her book, careful to save the page, and puts it by her side, staring down at her husband. Part of her whispers that she could have found worse – old, abusive men with little care for women’s wishes are more common that she would like. Part of her whispers that he is not so bad himself, and had no choice in the family from which he was born. She could have found worse, and he is not as bad as she first thought.

She waits a few more minutes, lest he wakes up, before she tentatively runs her fingers through his hair. Benvolio stirs, almost purring at the physical contact, but he remains asleep. And perhaps it is easier that way, growing fonder of him when he cannot notice, letting whatever is blossoming inside her do its job without his too knowing eyes staring into her soul.

“Like mold on bread,” she whispers to herself with a smile.


End file.
